


drunk off all these stars

by SHSLshortie, SnarkyBreeze



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: A Plant Wrote This, Anal Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-16 09:46:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18092027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SHSLshortie/pseuds/SHSLshortie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnarkyBreeze/pseuds/SnarkyBreeze
Summary: Chris is a leaf on the wind of his fancy, and he dances around those who enjoy him with ease.Except, it seems, for one man.One beautiful, sunshine-y enigma of a man with whom Chris just can’t seem to keep up.





	drunk off all these stars

Chris is pretty sure he’s better than this.

He’s never once considered himself nervous when it comes to men, nor has he had to concern himself with keeping up with his partners.  He’s content to let himself have fun, do what feels right, and stop what doesn’t, and he’s never had to think twice about any of those factors.  He’s got his rhythm, his own personal brand of _eros_ that’s playful yet mature, and when he taps into that rhythm he can string just about _anyone_ along on his whims.

Chris is a leaf on the wind of his fancy, and he dances around those who enjoy him with ease.

 _Except,_ it seems, for one man.

One beautiful, sunshine-y enigma of a man with whom Chris just can’t seem to keep up.

For some reason, he’s been trotting pathetically at Phichit Chulanot’s heels ever since the Cup of China. He’d had more of an interest in the Thai skater’s best friend in those days, but Yuuri was so clearly enamored with his coach, and Chris already knew Viktor’s hopeless infatuation with Yuuri—he never heard the end of it after Sochi.

He had no doubt of it when the pair made a shameless display of themselves on live television after Yuuri’s free skate.

So when the four of them—the  entire podium and one associated coach—ducked out early from the sponsors’ banquet in search of something a little more _exciting,_ Christophe and Phichit were the obvious pairing.  They had to get comfortable with one another pretty quickly anyway, considering their respective friends were so occupied with their newly-surfaced infatuation and couldn’t drag their attention away from each other for a moment the entire night.

Phichit danced in the club the way Yuuri danced on a pole, and that was without the assistance of sixteen glasses of champagne.  He wasn’t the least bit hesitant in the way he moved to the music, grinding his hips back into Chris’ and casting suggestive glances his way the whole night, all fiery eyes and bitten lips and flirtatious smirks.

Chris didn’t normally go for someone younger, but that kind of fearless enthusiasm caught his attention. _Phichit_ caught his attention, and he refused to let go.

Chris isn’t rash like Viktor, or impulsive like Yuuri. So why, after an exchange of numbers and social media handles, did he find himself laying in his hotel bed, liking every single one of Phichit’s Instagram posts?

And why was his embarrassment so devastating when Phichit called him out on it?

Chris has spent the past few months just trying to keep the upper hand with his new friend, to keep the inevitable escalation of their relationship on his terms, but Phichit has remained one—or ten—steps ahead of him with sprightly indifference, seeming to feed off of the ways Chris floundered and scrambled in his wake.

They’ve met up quite a few times since China. They chased sunlight out on the town after the GPF in Barcelona while Yuuri and Viktor were busy having their combination-engagement-make-up sex marathon.  Then there was Worlds. He got his first taste of Phichit there, in Rome, when the younger man pinned him against the door of a restroom stall and pulled him down by his curls to draw from his gasping mouth in long, dizzying sips.

What the _hell_ was that? Normally Chris is the one who steals his unexpecting prey away into some secluded corner to show them euphoria. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on the receiving end before Phichit. He couldn’t remember the last time he didn’t always know what was coming.

Things cooled off after Worlds, and Chris would count himself a dishonest man if he didn’t admit it was partially on behalf of his own apprehension in regards to moving forward.

He needed time to plan.  He needed to experience more of Phichit from a safe distance before he tried to return to his usual exploits, before he tried any of his time-tested moves, to find the best channels through which he can filter his charm to escape the constant, jittery nervousness that buzzed in his chest whenever he and his Thai beau spoke.

Needless to say that now, in the gentle heat of early summer and following a successful run of Art on Ice in Zürich, Chris is both excitedly anticipating and anxiously dreading the prospect of some alone time with Phichit.  If things go his way, he’ll be able to turn on the seduction and finally invite the younger man back to his hotel room to see just what “mature sensual love” means. But if their past encounters are any indication, things will _not_ go his way.  If that happens, he has no clue what the night could entail.

They invite Yuuri and Viktor to unwind at the hotel pool, hoping to have a relaxing evening of chatting and wedding plans, plus a modest sprawl of catered snacks that Chris insisted on ordering.  They all give themselves fifteen minutes to shower and change when they return home from the wrap party, but that _might_ have been planned with prior knowledge of Viktor’s inability to share a shower with his fiancé without at least going down on him.  So Chris _might_ have been expecting Phichit to show up on his own before the others, _might_ have been hoping to get a little bit of time to speak in private before the festivities begin.

Why the hell does his pulse quicken so suddenly when that’s _exactly_ what happens?

The Thai skater had the same idea as Chris had of using his team jacket as a cover-up, but unlike Chris, he didn’t bother to put his pants on for the trip down, and his trunks, like the skimpiest running shorts Chris has ever seen, sit low on his hips, showing off tan, toned abs that flip Chris’ stomach before he knows what hits him.

And here he thought the high-waisted jean shorts made him weak.  Those are _nothing compared to this._

“Hey stud,” Phichit says through a toothy grin, looking around at the spread of food and wine bottles Chris arranged poolside.  “Wow, you’re taking the maid-of-honor role pretty seriously, huh?”

Chris laughs nervously.  “Hey now, Niki told me I was best man,” he purrs, keeping his tone low and even.

Phichit doesn’t have to do more than quirk up a suggestive eyebrow, his head cocked to the side, for Chris to know he’s right.  

How is he always right??

“So why are you at the hotel if you live in Zurich?” Phichit asks, pouring himself a glass of rosé.

“I like for my ice shows to feel like a vacation,” Chris shrugs, reclining back on his pool chair and indulging a little bit in the view. The city lights, blending in with the stars as through they’re part of a new, colorful night sky, and all of it ripples and reflects off the rippling surface of the pool.  The water casts soft, glowing beams over the walls around them, teasing its light over Phichit’s figure as he perches on its edge, dipping his toes in and letting out a little, shivering gasp at its coolness.

It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair. Chris has to bite his lip to hide his wanting.

“Nothing to do with present company, huh?” Phichit teases.  “Well, if your home is anywhere near as beautiful as it is here, I’d love to see it someday.”

“Phichit,” Chris breathes, squirming in his chair.

“So did you pick the poolside to see how the light on the water complements my ass, or are you going to come swim too?”

Chris has no idea how to answer that except to scramble from his seat and let himself down on the pool’s edge next to the younger man, leaving his team colors on the chaise and snatching up his wine on his way.

“Ooh, I like this better,” Phichit muses, lowering himself slowly into the cool water, his soft skin brushing against Chris’ bare leg as he does, drawing out goosebumps from the subtle touch.

Chris has never been more thankful to be interrupted by Viktor than he is now, moments away from seeing his death in the eyes of this grinning enigma splashing in the calm waters in front of him.

“Yuuri!” Phichit calls, floating on his back.  “Who’s the maid of honor, me or Chris?”

“Um, I don’t really—“

“Chris, obviously,” Viktor states, shedding his clothes and jumping into the pool’s depth immediately.

“Niki! You told me—“

“Oh my _god,_ it doesn’t matter,” Phichit groans, reaching up and pulling Chris in with him.  Chris barely has time to set down his drink before he’s pushed under, bubbles tickling his sides, and as he surfaces, Phichit is hanging off his shoulders, the slip of his wet skin against Chris’ back maddening.  “That’s all some heteronormative bullshit anyway. Katsuki Yuuri, get your butt in this pool and tell me what you want for your bachelor party!”

Tonight is the night, and this moment settles it.  Chris can’t possibly go another day without absolutely devouring this delicious, unbelievable contradiction of a man.

He shoots a mischievous glance over his shoulder, catches a glimpse of dark, hooded eyes and the flip of pink tongue over Phichit’s lips, and then pushes off from the pool’s bottom, flipping them both forward and sending the Thai hurtling head-first into the water.

Sputtering and laughing, the younger man retaliates with a splash before diving underneath and sweeping Chris’ legs, pulling him underneath, letting his hands roam shamelessly over his hips and ribs before they both surface.

Chris catches questioning glances from Viktor any time their eyes meet, pointed looks that shift to Phichit and back demandingly.  Chris has no response except to shrug helplessly because _hell_ if he knows how he’s going to move things forward—he can hardly maneuver his tongue to form words whenever those bright brown eyes look his way.

The games and wading don’t last long; it’s cool enough now that the sun has set that pretty soon everyone is shivering and scrambling for their towels by the poolside.

After toweling off by the chaise and pulling on his sweats, Chris reaches for his team jacket right at the edge of the chaise where he left it, only to find it’s not there.

“Ooh, this smells like you,” Phichit says behind him, and Chris whirls around to see the younger man pull _his_ Swiss team jacket over his shoulders and do a twirl.  “What do you think? Yuuri? I kind of think red and white are my colors!”

Snickering, the younger man tosses Christophe his own black jacket, the front emblazoned with a round logo bearing the Thai flag.  Chris already knows how well this jacket hugs Phichit’s figure, how snugly it fits over his chest and the curve of his shoulders… he’s not _huge,_ but he’d be popping seams if he tried to put it on.  So instead, he ties the arms loosely around his shoulders and lets the jacket drape across his back, nothing but a posh alternative to actual warmth.

He understands (he thinks) why Phichit pointed out the smell.  Or maybe he understands what prompted it, at least. Because the heady scent that lingers on the soft, black fabric brings Chris right back to making out in an out-of-the-way restroom at Worlds, fills his senses with remnants of the way their hands wandered and the taste of cinnamon gum, the soft but persistent moans that rumbled in Phichit’s chest against his.

 _He’s losing his mind. Christophe has to be losing his mind._  He’s not one to be shaken by such shameless maneuvers, _he’s_ the one who pulls them!  He’s got to show Phichit that his message is received, that (he thinks?) they’re on the same page, that the second Viktor and Yuuri are ready to turn in for the night, he’s willing to rush upstairs and see where the rest of that bottle of wine takes them.

He could try to keep the younger man there to help him clean up, then suggest that they keep the festivities going upstairs.  Maybe he could say something else about how red looks good on Phichit. Or, “You can just hang that up on my headboard when you’re done with it.”

Suggesting that they’d be… wait, the hotel beds don’t even have headboards?  It’s a little vague.

“Jacket swap selfie!”  Phichit exclaims, tossing his phone at Yuuri who just barely catches it in time.  “Come on, _mon cher,_ let’s do it for the ‘gram!”

It’s hard to smile for a photo when Chris’ breath just left him so fast it felt like he was hit in the chest with a bag of bricks.  He strikes a pose, leaning casually against Phichit’s shoulder.

“Ok, um, on the count of three…” Yuuri mutters, fussing with the phone screen.

“I thought the whole point of a selfie was that we take it our _selves,”_ he teases, giving Phichit a little nudge with his hip.

“We wouldn’t be able to both show our best angles that way,” Phichit explains, flashing his grin as Yuuri snaps the picture.  “Or do you remember nothing from the night you liked all my selfies within the same hour?” He nudges back, a little less forceful and a little more sultry, a pendulous swing of his hips that doesn’t so much crash into Chris’ side as it does brush against it, and the Swiss man swears he catches a hint of embarrassment in Yuuri’s eyes as he returns his best friend’s phone.

They talk wedding plans, Chris wrapped in a towel since Phichit _insists_ on keeping his jacket on, claiming it’s warmer because it’s designed to suit the Swiss climate, sipping rosé and munching on hors dœuvres.  Yuuri is a hard sell in just about every area, not wanting anything too big or fancy, especially for the festivities the night before. But between Viktor and Phichit, he lets himself be nudged into some of the more expensive flower arrangements, a live band instead of a DJ, and a totally-secret bachelor party—free from strip clubs, strippers, or anything pole-related, but otherwise giving Phichit free reign to invite whomever and plan whatever he pleases.

It’s a productive little tête-à-tête, and Chris has three notepad pages full of to-dos by the time they start to lose steam.

He can tell it’s time to go when Yuuri begins dozing off with his cheek stuck to Viktor’s chest, his glasses askew and a half-finished glass of wine dangling from his hand.

The snacks and drinks were just enough, with one bottle left over for the hotel room.

Perfect.

He sends Viktor off with a kiss on the cheek and a promise to text in the morning so they can grab breakfast before he and Yuuri return to St. Petersburg, then turns to find Phichit already has the remains of the snack table scooped into their bag and slung over his shoulder.  With Viktor and Yuuri barely out of sight, barely out of earshot, Chris suddenly finds himself being backed against the wall, the heat of Phichit’s body dizzying as the younger man thumbs at the waistband of Chris’ sweats, mouthing hungrily at his clavicle until there’s nothing between them but the thick smell of chlorine.

The sound that escapes Chris’ lips, unexpected and completely involuntary, is positively obscene.

“Phichit—” he croaks, but a soft, manicured thumb brushes against his lower lip and drags it down slowly, teasingly, as Phichit stares him down with those same dark eyes he’d had in the swimming pool.

“I have nipple clamps, lube, and a bottle of champagne upstairs; are we doing this or what?” he demands, pushing his knee in between Chris’ legs, brushing its way up his inner thigh until…

It’s not like Christophe to be this touch-and-go.

But the sensation that blooms deep, low in his abdomen has him gripping Phichit’s shoulders to steady himself and gasping for breath.

“Yeah,” he breathes with a quick nod, swooning at the way the Thai man’s gaze only grows more ravenous.  “Yes, please, god, yes.”

The elevator takes thirteen seconds to take them to the third floor.  Which means for thirteen seconds, they might as well be horny teenagers, pawing desperately at one another, Phichit’s legs wrapped around Chris’ waist as the older man pins him to the wall.  When the doors slide open, Phichit is hardly gentle about dragging Chris down the hall to his room, key card out and ready, jaw set with intent.

The door is barely open a second before they’re both inside, stepping clumsily out of their clothes and towels right in the entrance of the suite with lips still crashing together in desperate, greedy kisses, not even bothering to wait until they’re fully inside.  Before Phichit is even finished pulling his trunks down over his ankles, Chris has him hoisted up in his arms once more, carrying him in long strides toward the bed and throwing him down on the mattress. The younger man lets himself be flipped over onto his stomach, giggling in soft, precious moans.  Chris kisses his way down his spine, nipping and teasing with his teeth as he goes.

Phichit’s neck is already blooming with fresh, purple bruises, and Chris is sure his own is too as he sinks his teeth into the impossibly soft flesh of Phichit’s hip and pulls.  The little yelp he draws out is intoxicating as tan, slender fingers grasp at the bedsheets on either side of him. Phichit thrusts his hips back grinding his ass against Chris needily, his face flushed and wanting, and the slip of supple skin against his cock sends shocks up his spine, making his knees buckle against the edge of the bed.

The sensation of something hard and metallic stops Chris in his tracks, or else he’s certain that he’d already have a faceful of ass.  He reaches down with trembling hands and spreads Phichit’s cheeks just enough to reveal the glint of a delicate, rose gold plug embellished with a sparkling light-blue jewel.

What feels like a gasp comes out as a hungry growl, and Chris’ hand shoots to his cock, unable to contain himself any longer.

“Phichit, I need to feel you,” he groans, rocking his hips forward to press into that ass once more.

The pressure of Chris’ cock against the jeweled butt plug is sensational and horrible, and Phichit’s obscene cries are pushing every last ounce of rational thought from Chris’ mind, leaving something animal and insatiable in its wake.

He bends over the Thai man’s prone form, rolling his hips to prolong the lewd noises spilling from his mouth, and kisses hot and open-mouthed along the curve of his neck.

“Black velvet bag on the bathroom sink,” Phichit pants, turning to return the kiss in a crash of tongue and teeth.  “I want you to fuck me until I can’t remember my name.”

Chris’ cock throbs between Phichit’s thighs, and he just about sprints to the bathroom to grab their effects. Inside the black bag is a travel-size bottle of lube, an assortment of condoms, a few lengths of crimson silk cord, and a pair of shiny silver clamps connected by a heavy chain.

God, he wants to have some fun with those nipple clamps, but the aching, pulsing arousal between his legs is becoming more than he can bear, and he resolves that the more exciting stuff will have to wait for round two.

He doesn’t waste time rolling the condom on as he returns over to the bed, bottle of lube warming between his thighs as he slowly, indulgently pulls the cute little plug from between Phichit’s cheeks.

Phichit buries his face into the mattress, his breaths coming in long, shaky sighs as he stretches over the little, plump bulb.  It slides free with a positively filthy sound, and Chris can hold back no longer.

After slicking himself up, he lines himself up and pushes gently into the soft ring of muscle.  Phichit is warm and tight, and a familiar, pleasant heat washes over Chris in wave after wave as he eases himself in.

Phichit whines impatiently, snapping his hips back with a little involuntary shout, causing stars to jump and dance in front of Chris’ eyes.  His pace quickens, the rutting and bucking of his hips almost involuntary as he chases the unquenchable need for _more, more_ Phichit, more fire and ice and agonizing pleasure, the pressure building behind his eyes.

Phichit is babbling incoherently in long, wrecked phrases, his eyes rolling back in a blissed-out expression that is so surprisingly dirty that Chris gets another jolt of white hot light.  He can’t hold out much longer like this. He reaches down and takes Phichit’s cock in his hand, and Phichit brings a hand up to join him, their fingers slipping furiously over the slick, hot flesh until Chris can feel the overwhelming pressure of the younger man clenching around him, whiting out his vision as he ruts uncontrollably, his face pulled tight in a silent scream.

“Please don’t stop,” Phichit pleads voicelessly, his nails digging into the back of Chris’ hand as he jerks his hips sporadically, and then he’s coming too, spilling over their fingers in hot spurts.

The two men collapse in a heap on their bed, and it takes a minute for either of them to say anything as their heart rates slow and they regain their breath.  Chris curls around Phichit like a shell, enveloping him in his arms and breathing him in once more.

“Can I wear your jacket again?” The Thai man asks, shivering a little bit as his body cools.  “It’s so nice and warm.”

Chris laughs, jumping up to get their clothes, but leaving the swim suits when he remembers they’re still wet.  He tosses his own toward Phichit and settles for wearing the little black one as a makeshift blanket.

As he tumbled back onto the bed, he realizes his phone is still in Phichit’s pocket.

“We should take another picture,” he murmurs, opening up his camera.  “But this time, let’s make it an actual selfie, no?”

They look an absolute wreck together, sweaty and red and spotted with obvious little bites.  Phichit arranges the collar of the Swiss jacket to cover the worst of his, and Chris just ends up pulling the black one up over his chin entirely and snapping a pic before he changes his mind.

He doesn’t mean to post it, but a few glasses of wine later, it seems like a pretty good idea. A post for Phichit’s account, and a post for his own.  He doesn’t even take the fans into consideration, the wild conclusions to which they always jump when he makes a new post, although he supposes this time around they’re not exactly wrong.

“Will you stay?” Phichit asks, laying with his head in Chris’ thigh and swirling a glass of champagne in front of his face.

“I wouldn’t be able to leave,” Chris whispers, carding his fingers lightly through the other man’s bangs.  “How on Earth do you do this to me?”

“Do what?”

Chris sits up, and Phichit follows suit so that they’re facing one another on the bed, lit only by the twinkling lights from the city as they mingled with the stars.

“I thought maybe once I got a taste of you I’d stop being… I don’t know, nervous, stupid? I thought it would cool, but I just want you more.”

Phichit throws his head back and laughs, letting himself fall back into Chris’ lap, not quite ready to break physical contact yet.

“What?”

“Are you ever going to realize that I want you back?” Phichit snorts, rolling onto his back so that he’s nestled in between Chris’ legs, looking up at him with an incredulous grin.

“You… you what?”

“I’ve been trying to tell you for months,” Phichit says, unable to stop himself from rolling his eyes.  “Chris, I kissed you and you didn’t even suspect?”

Chris doesn’t answer. As always, with Phichit, he doesn’t know how. He just runs his fingers down to cup the younger man’s cheek.

For the first time tonight, he doesn’t feel nervous.


End file.
